Fireflies
by CrepuscularSnidget
Summary: Follow Rue and Thresh into the haunting 74th Hunger Games. One choice can change everything. Chapter titles taken from William Blake's epic poem "The Tyger".
1. the lamb

In the end, there is a girl and a spear and an arrow soaring desperately through the air. And there are two cannons, two rapid bursts, two lives lost. There are flowers and a hushed song. And there is the end, and all that is left is the unshakable resolve to survive.

This is the end.

It is also the beginning.


	2. burning bright

They stand, a tiny flock of birds. She glances back, over her shoulder, for one last glimpse of them and pastes a smile on her face. And moves forward.

It doesn't hurt when they prick her finger and press the tiny gem of blood on the paper. And then she is lost in the shuffle of girls, bobbing and murmuring and hoping.

She unconsciously touches her own raven hair as the blue-haired escort ascends the stage. She can't imagine masking herself in all these garish layers.

This is it, her very first year. She bobs up to the balls of her feet and sinks back down. _Not me not me not me not me, please please please. _The film flickers on the stage, and she digs her fingernails into the palm of her hands. She is wearing her nicest dress, a faded blue like the sky at day break, still worn and threadbare. Her feet are unaccustomed to shoes, and she finds herself tugging at her socks.

Everyone in her section is deathly still. She knows they are all chanting the desperate prayer. _Not me not me please anyone but me. _She is entered for tesserae. The odds are not in her favor. But then, there are older girls, eighteen-year olds, the bowls plumped with their dozens of entries. The film sputters to a stop, and the escort taps the microphone. In a few minutes, it will be over, and she can go home with her family, and her mother will stroke her hair and tell her she was so brave, she won't have to do that again for one more year, and her eleven-year-old brother will question her about everything and remind their family that he's fast and strong so he could definitely win, and the little ones will tug her skirts and ask her to play dolls and jump rope, and her father will scoop her up in his arms, and she'll finally be safe.

Silence.

Everyone is staring at her.

Did she miss the reaping?

Her gaze darts from the stage to the eyes of the crowd.

"Rue?" the escort repeats, vacantly scanning the crowd. "Come on up, darling!"

Oh, no it's her it's her why did it have to be her, no no this is a nightmare this isn't happening no no please no but it's real it's real _Come on up, darling!_

She walks.

Forward.

There is no turning back.

Her shoes chafe her feet, but she keeps her head up although her hands are trembling. Her life, all her memories and experiences seem so fleeting and fragile. She didn't know that it would be so short.

"Welcome, darling," the escort crows. "And congratulations!" The crowd is silent, numb, at this tiny wisp of a girl on the stage.

But no one volunteers for her.

Tears burn her gaze, but she burrows her nails into her palms, and forces herself not to cry.

_Survive, _she tells herself. _Hide. You're quick. You can simply fade away._


	3. in the forests of the night

No one volunteers. The tiny girl wilts onstage like a flower at the first frost. He clenches his fists and bites his tongue, willing one of his neighbors to step forward.

Not a single one.

He is eighteen years old, the witness of seventeen Games and far too many deaths, but this is the worst, when the young and innocent are lead to the slaughter. Can't someone protect the little girl?

And then the sound of his name shoots over the crowd, and all eyes pick their way through the crowd to land on him. He nods his head, once. So it's going to be him. He'll protect the little girl.

His footsteps ring like thunder as he passes through the wall of his neighbors. They toss sympathetic words and heartbreaking glances at him. He finds the eyes of his grandmother. She nods at him, her dark eyes betraying no sorrow or fear. _Protect the girl, _she is saying. His sister rests her hands on the old lady's shoulders. She lifts one calloused hand in farewell.

"Congratulations, Thresh," the escort purrs. Thresh ignores him.

"And District 11, here are your tributes for the 74th Annual Hunger Games!"

He forces what he hopes is a gentle smile towards the girl. Hesitantly, she smiles back, and they shake hands, his hand easily engulfing hers.

He is led away by Peacekeepers who glance nervously at his massive muscles. He finds this rather amusing. But he's not going to resist, not if he wants to keep Grandma and Violet safe.

And they visit him, Violet wrapping her wiry arms around his waist. At sixteen, she's tall for her age, but her brother dwarfs her.

"Come back, okay, Thresh?" she says. "We need you."

Violet's tough, he knows. Fell out of a tree, broke her wrist, and kept on picking until sunset. She's the one who challenges the boys to footraces and arm wrestling matches, and the one who usually wins. Even without him, she could patch together survival.

His grandmother grips his wrist. "Protect her, Thresh. You can't let a tiny girl like that die. I raised you with honor and courage. I know you will live up to that."

Violet shifts her weight from foot to foot, fiddling with her braided hair. "I'll take care of Grandma."

"Don't get too cocky, girl," Grandma snaps. "I'll still be takin' care of you here. I'm not dead yet!"

He stares at them, trying to press this exchange into the deepest parts of his memory. Violet's frizzy hair escaping from her plait, his grandmother's sharp voice at odds with her wizened body, the peeling paint, the humid air, his grandmother's flashing eyes, his own heart pounding its last beats in his chest.

"That reminds me," his grandma mutters. "Got a token for you here." The hunchbacked old woman shuffles forward and places a tarnished pocket watch in his hands. He stares at the object, turning it over and marveling at the shine. He's never seen anything so bright before. Everything in District 11 is muted and repressed. He wonders what the watch would look like if it were polished.

"Your father's," his grandmother says softly. He blinks in surprise. She almost never speaks of her son, lost in an accident with a tractor when Thresh was six.

"Thank you," he says softly, closing his fist around the smooth metal.

Violet hugs him one last time before the Peacekeepers take his family away.

And then he is left alone, as he likes it. He always tried to be alone during work, retreat to his own corner of the fields, where he could swing his scythe in peace, the only sound his labored breathing. He is alone now, with the dark forest of his thoughts. He leans back against the wall, slick with condensation, and focuses on steady breathing. In and out. His massive chest rises and falls. He is big. He is strong. He never gives up. He can win. But he will protect the little flower of a girl. Rue.


	4. fearful symmetry

She doesn't trust the train. It is too shiny, too perfect. She wants to be home in the tiny hut, feel the dirt floor between her toes.

"Refreshments?"

She stares at her escort's blinding white teeth.

"What?"

"Refreshments," her escort says patiently. "Food."

Her stomach hasn't seized up yet, so she digs in, knowing she'll probably regret this later. She thinks briefly to her family, their last meeting. They have her tesserae. They'll be okay.

There are tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off, fruit arranged in the shape of flowers, a menagerie of sugar animals, sausages, and fluffy white rolls. Her family is eating their usual meal of brown bread and maybe some cured ham or chicken if they're lucky.

She scoops a little of everything on her plate.

Her escort sizes her up. "I'm going to talk to Seeder and Chaff, okay? They'll be your mentors, okay, dearie?"

She nods. He leaves. She breathes a sigh of relief.

And then he comes in, barely able to squeeze his massive frame through the doorway. He nods at her then scoops a pile of sausage and rolls on his plate.

"Hi," she says softly.

He grunts.

"I'm Rue."

He pauses in tearing the sausage apart. "I know."

"Okay," she says. She picks at her sandwich. "I think I've seen you around before in the fields. You're the biggest one out there."

He chews the sausage, marveling at the peculiar savory taste. They sure don't have anything like this in the district. The girl is watching him with her luminous brown eyes. _Say something, _he tells himself.

Words have never come easy to him.

"I like the fields." This is true.

She smiles impishly. "I like the orchards. I love climbing trees."

She's the one who whistles from the treetops.

Seeder and Chaff come in. Rue listens attentively, propping her chin up on the table. Thresh focuses on steadily shoving food in his mouth.

They tell their tributes that they have a chance. It's the same speech every year. The sympathetic looks, the determined posture, it's all an elaborate mask. A pageant.

Rue tells them she can climb trees and hide. Seeder nods, making a note not to underestimate the little girl. When Chaff asks Thresh what his skills are, he grunts.

"He's strong," the girl pipes up.

"I can see," Chaff says drily.

Thresh fidgets under their scrutiny. He wants to climb out the train window and lose himself in the blur of green outside the train. He doesn't trust the artificial perfection of the Capitol, the glossy counters, the perfect food, the unnatural technology.

Their mentors leave, promising to return that evening to discuss the other competitors.

The little girl stares out the window, thinking of her family. _MamaPapaMallowIrisPeaseBarle yJuniper. I will come back I will come back I will come back._

She sketches their names on the window glass.

Her fingers leave no trace.


	5. distant deeps or skies

The train hisses as it pulls into the station. The little girl dashes to the window, pressing her tiny face up against the glass. The crowd roars.

He slumps back against his seat. They're here.

"Let's go!" his mentor chirps. "We have so much to do today!"

Seeder claps her hands briskly, and the little girl reluctantly steps away from the window and the kaleidoscopic world outside.

He pushes himself to his feet, the top of his head nearly brushing the ceiling of the train. As they step out, Peacekeeepers silently flank them. No escape here.

He barely notices the outrageous costumes, pausing only to briefly register the fact that a woman has iridescent dragonfly wings and a man has skin the color of a ripe apple. What a strange world this is.

They are herded to an elevator, and his stomach swoops as they are pulled up, up, up to the eleventh floor. Rue is bouncing on her toes, her hands clasped together in amazement.

The doors of the elevator slide subserviently out of the way, and his eyes are meant with a bolt of blinding light.

"Let's go! Are you ready to meet your stylists?" Without waiting for an answer, their blue-haired escort prods them out of the elevator.

A buzzing team of rainbow haired creatures whisk him away. Their heads only come up to his chest, but they are strong enough to push him down on the table. Every fiber in his body screams at him to resist, shaking these insect-like Capitol citizens off him, and bulldozing his way out of this nightmarish city. But he grits his teeth and bites his tongue as they spray him and tweeze him and poke him and brush him and polish him.

It's all so unreal: the garish clothes, the blind adoration, the chattering from his escort. And beneath the layer of numbness is a raw, primal need to survive. He can't trust anyone in this strange land, not Seeder or Chaff or his escort or his stylists.

* * *

The fear slowly evaporates from her as she is lost in the wild beauty of this city. She never imagined anything so colorful could exist in the same world as the dreary brown District 11.

"You like it, darling?"

She nods, as best she can with a fuchsia-haired woman painting her eyelids with a layer of sparkles.

"What a pretty thing you are, sweetheart. I would _kill _to have your perfect skin."

She blushes. Mama and Papa have told her what a pretty girl she is, but this is different. The stylist carefully tips her head back and coats her lips in burgundy. She squints in the harsh light.

"Perfect, darling," says the stylist. "We'll send Pressia in right away. She's your main stylist. She's making you a gorgeous costume, honey."

She nods carefully, her face smothered under a layer of makeup. The members of her prep team hum away, and she is left all alone. Suddenly, she is drowning in homesickness. She squeezes her eyes shut to weld the faces of her family into her memory. She can't forget them. She has to go home, somehow.

"Hello."

She carefully opens her eyes. A tiny blonde woman—although she still looks young enough to be Reaped—fidgets in front of her.

"I'm Pressia. This is my first year as a stylist. It's a pleasure to meet you, Rue." Tiny gemstones sparkle down her arms.

"Nice to meet you," Rue whispers.

"I thought we should do something simple. There is elegance in simplicity, you know. You work on a farm, yes?"

"In the orchard."

Pressia smiles, illuminating her pretty face. Her eyes are the color of violets in the springtime. "How lovely. I would love to visit, but I've never left the Capitol."

In some ways, Pressia is just as trapped as she is, in this gilded cage. But she does not have to face the terrors of the Games. Rue digs her fingers in her hands, trying to block the fear. If she thinks about the Games, she will go mad. She has to shut it out, keep moving forward.

Pressia slips a garment bag from the silver closet on the other side of the room and glides back over to Rue.

"Here it is," she says shyly. The zipper rasps open, and out tumbles the costume.

Pressia's right, it is simple. Blue denim overalls—she has a pair just like them at home, though these must have cost more than her house—and a silky blue shirt that shimmers in the light. And a tiny silver laurel wreath.

"For victory," Pressia says. "I want you to wind."

Rue's throat closes up. But she forces herself to believe Pressia. Victory. It seems so unattainable, but she is here. It is all she has to strive for.

"Let's get you dressed," Pressia murmurs. "They will love you. I promise."


	6. the fire of thine eyes

She carefully touches the fragile silver laurel wreath on her head. Her heart pounds wildly in her chest. They're supposed to love her, this little girl against the might of the Capitol, but if they loved her, why did no one volunteer for her? Why did they leave her alone on the stage, a tiny flower against the mighty wind?

She takes a deep breath, inflating her lungs, and watches the blue silk shirt billow around her. The horses toss their heads. She's used to horses pulling the plows back at home, though she's never been this close to one before. They could easily crush her under their hooves. But they're beautiful, with sleek, shimmering chestnut coats, and manes woven with golden ribbons.

He is staring at the horses, dressed in overalls and a laurel wreath like she is. She wants to say something, but what? "I hope they like us"? "You look nice"?

No. She'll just keep quiet.

The chariot lurches under her feet, and she instinctively grabs his arm to steady herself. He smiles down at her. And then they're moving, under the canopy of screams of the Capitol. Flowers rain down from the sky, and she reaches up to snatch a tiny white bouquet.

She glances up at her partner, who is glaring defiantly up at the crowd. "It's okay," she whispers. Startled, he bends down towards her. "It's okay," she repeats, remembering Pressia's words. "They're supposed to love us."

He grunts skeptically, but slides one massive tree branch of an arm around her. The crowd sighs in sympathy.

And then she senses a glow behind her and turns her head, unable to suppress a gasp.

The chariot behind her is on fire.

* * *

The little girl next to him gasps in delight. He turns his head. The overalls are too small, and the straps are digging into his shoulders.

Her face is washed in firelight as she gazes at the flaming chariot behind her. He nods his head once, impressed. Not bad, for Twelve. Much better than the usual coal miner costumes.

He doesn't want to gawk too long, but he's painfully aware that Twelve has taken the attention from them. No matter what Rue says, he's perfectly content to stay out of the spotlight and blend in to the background.

The horses—sleek and muscular, unlike the scrawny nags back home—pull them into the circle around the president's dais. He bites back his anger, but it still burns inside him. This is the man, the man who stares down at twenty-three doomed kids, who casually licks his lips and proceeds with the show. This is the man that signed twenty-three death warrants with a gnarled hand and an iron heart. He grips the chariot hard, trying to force down the anger.

"Tributes," the President says hoarsely. "And citizens of Panem,"

How many times has he heard these words whispered from these sore-ridden lips? And how many times has he thanked whoever might be above for sparing his life? And how many times has he pitied the poor bastards, then tried to force it from his mind while tilling the field?

"I am pleased to welcome you here tonight, as we gather as a nation."

Lying in his cot at night, while the cicadas buzzed outside and moonlight filtered in through the cracks in the wall, he's wondered if, somehow, he could take down the Capitol. Put an end to it all. What if, just once, twenty-four children said no?

"It is a time of penance and a time of plenty."

As he grew up and watched the backs of boys beaten bloody for stealing food, and seen mothers shot in the forehead for defending their reaped children, he realized that his dreams of rebellion were merely the dreams of a child.

"Our history as the people of one nation, a nation that has survived wars and droughts and plagues, unites us."

But here, he feels his rage burn inside him, lighting his eyes. Who are these strange tributes from Twelve that allow their fire to consume them?

"These twenty-four tributes are brought here as a sacrifice to honor our nation and battle to the death for honor and glory."

He crosses his arms, stares defiantly at the President like he would stare down a belligerent ox.

"Welcome to the 74th Annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

He meets the President's eyes, blocking out the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd. Rue slips her tiny petal of a hand into his, and he squeezes it carefully. The odds are not in his favor. They never have been. But they will be.

**Thanks to bluespades, Designation DarkLullaby, and ClamKidToTheRescue for their lovely reviews! You are awesome!**


	7. on what wings dare he aspire?

_Chin up, _she tells herself. Weapons of blood and murder wink at her. She shivers. Seeder claps her on the shoulder, and she jumps like a nervous rabbit.

"You'll be okay," Seeder says roughly.

She gulps. She can do this. One foot in front of the other, crossing vast chasms, to arrive at a rack of knives, their wicked blades taunting her. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, blocking out all the horrible images she's seen, of blood bubbling from cut throats. No, not knives.

Atala's words blur through her mind, statistics of death. She wasn't listening. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet, trying to remember the exact taste of Mama's porridge on a crisp autumn morning.

She turns away from the sinuous whispers of the knives to the fire station where the boy from 9 is desperately scraping two rocks together. She hovers nearby, trying to absorb the technique. She's never made a fire before. What if the arena is a solid block of ice?

And then the tidal wave of fear rears up before her, and she frantically stamps it down. If she thinks about the Games, she's going to throw up. So focus on something, _anything, _else. Turn away from the Careers, the leering wolf pack mutilating the dummies. And there she is.

The Fire Girl.

She sucks in a breath, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. Beneath the flames, she looks normal. Average. But then her eyes narrow as she practices tying her knots, and Rue sees the same raw determination that was present at the Reaping. The need to survive and to protect the weak at all costs.

She keeps her footsteps as light as apple blossom petals in the springtime. Pressing herself against a pillar, she watches the girl struggle with the knots, swearing under her breath. And then—a flash of gold. She holds her breath. There it is again, as the Fire Girl bends over to tug at a particularly stubborn knot.

A mockingjay, frozen in flight, pinned to her chest. A stark message of hope against the Capitol made uniform. A million mockingjays burst in to song in the orchard in Rue's head.

There's hope. There always is. You just have to know where to look.

He feels himself stand taller the moment he enters the gym. Immediately, the Careers size him up. But not like they're evaluating their prey. No, they're marking him as an equal.

He's never used any weapon besides his fists, but that doesn't matter. He is here. Damn the Capitol, damn the Careers, damn them all to hell. He's going to win.

He grips a long knife with a blade like a crescent moon. It feels solid in his hands. Real. He swings it, testing its balance, and then slams it into a dummy's chest. Decent. He grins. He practices throwing the big iron weights, the memory of all those years in the fields buried deep in his muscles. There's a steady power in his movements. He's got a job, and he's going to do it.

He sets down the weight, a steady burn in his biceps, and glances around for his shadow of a district partner. There she is, melted behind a pillar, her dark brown gaze fixed on the Fire Girl. He doesn't trust Twelve, the little show they put on, but as long as they occupy the Capitol's attention instead of him, he's happy.

"Hey."

He glances up. There's the head wolf, the blond boy from Two. Thresh is taller.

He grunts.

The boy tilts his chin up, his cold blue gaze evaluating the other tribute. "Nice work you've been doing."

He waits.

"Not bad for an Eleven."

He shrugs.

"Join us." He nods towards his group in the background, each tribute with a glint of bloodlust in their gaze. "You could be quite a help."

"No." He walks away. He's got work to do.

"No?" The boy's voice is rising. "Don't you understand what you're being offered?" He curses. Thresh ignores him. "You'll regret this." Each word is a burning coal. "I swear you will."

He keeps walking, the heavy tread of his feet causing the other tributes to pause and look up. He knows what was offered, knows what this would mean to a farm boy from Eleven. He doesn't care. He's got plans. Plans that don't involve the Careers. He picks up the iron weight and swings it, losing himself in the steady beat of the work.

**Thanks so much to all who have left a review. They totally make my day!**


	8. what the hand dare seize the fire?

She dreams of them every night. In the mornings, the sumptuous display of food parading in front of her is a slap to the face. They're starving. Starving and scared. She looks down at the food, and tears burn at her eyes as she sees the five faces of her little siblings. Barley would stuff his cheeks with the rolls, and Mama would say he looked like a chipmunk. Mallow would take all the sausages, and Pease would throw a fit. Iris would marvel at the sugar-dusted cakes, and Papa would bounce Juniper on his lap.

At home, she knows, they're huddled together, a tiny flock of birds. They never had much food, but it was enough, wasn't it? And this year was going to be better, because they had the tesserae. But it wasn't.

She crosses her arms, the Capitol fabric so unlike the rough burlap she's used to, and tries to blend in. She wants to see what the other kids are like.

There's the Careers, heads thrown back in a vicious laughter as they shoot arrows and dismember dummies with eerie perfection. A shiver skitters up her spine. What could happen to these six kids to make them so wolf like?

Her gaze is drawn to the Fire Girl and her partner. They're by the camouflage station, whispering intently. She cocks her head to the side, wondering what they're saying. The boy shakes his head and bends over the table, his brow wrinkled in concentration. The Fire Girl watches him, an unreadable expression on her face. Rue leans in closer. Her gasp is hidden by the Fire Girl's exclamation.

"Peeta! That's—how did you do that?"

The boy grins proudly, wiggling his fingers. His arm has now become a tree limb. "I used to decorate the cakes at the bakery."

Cakes. Mmmm…

The boy whispers something else, and the Fire Girl whips her head over to where Rue is hiding. She quickly shrinks back, her heart pounding, and leans her head against the pillar. There's something about the Fire Girl. She remembers the recaps of the Reaping she watched, the Fire Girl's desperate scream as she threw herself in front of her little sister. She's the older sister Rue never had.

* * *

"Hey! Who took my knife?"

Thresh crosses his arms and enjoys the show as Cato—the big blonde Career lug he rejected—grabs the District 6 boy by the throat.

"I'll kill you for this," he grunts. "Son of a bitch!" Unhinged, Thresh thinks.

"Hey!" Two Peacemakers snap over and pry Cato off the smaller boy.

"My knife," Cato growls. He sounds like a rabid dog. Thresh half-expects him to start foaming at the mouth. "Damn you!"

Thresh's gaze wanders upward to the beams criss-crossing the ceiling. And there she is, the knife wedged in her tiny brown fist. He smiles and winks at her. He suspected as much.

* * *

As Cato hacks apart a practice dummy, Thresh remembers that private sessions are tonight. He squares his shoulders. He doesn't want to perform for them like a trained dog. But Seeder and Chaff have drilled it into his head that a good score means good sponsors which could mean life. Survival. That's what they're all after, isn't it? They docilely learn what plants are medicinal and how to make a fire and what the best technique for strangulation is, but in the arena, they'll disintegrate into a horde of rabid dogs who'll tear apart their ally if it means survival. Not him though. He'll be as steady as a rock, he promises—who? Grandma? Violet? Himself? _It doesn't matter, _he tells himself. He's here to protect the little girl, see that she gets home. And he won't loses himself in the Games. When it's done, he'll still remain.

* * *

His pulse pounds a steady beat as he finds his rhythm. He blocks it all out, the Gamemakers stuffing their faces with their greasy fingers as mute Avoxes do their bidding, and just focuses on his breathing. In and out. He hurls the weights, feels the room shake as they reach their targets. It's just another day's work. Doesn't matter if it's in District 11 or the Capitol.

As he finishes, he doesn't bother to look at their reactions. He knows he did well. He lets his performance hang in the air as he walks out, the earth still trembling.

* * *

She glides in and surveys the room, rising slightly on the balls of her feet. Her hair's frizzing in her face again. She pushes it back and takes a deep breath.

She's relying on the element of surprise. No one's expecting much from this tiny wisp of a girl. But she wants to win, so bad it hurts. She wants to go home. This desire burns the tears away. She'll reach for the stars, steal the fire.

And then she flies, scurrying up the poles of the room like a squirrel. Her hands instinctively grasp the ceiling beams, years of calluses helping her grip. She smiles as she hears the faint gasps of wonder from below as she floats above them. When she alights on the floor, she could've sworn she saw one Gamemaker wiping a tear away.

* * *

The numbers flash on the screen as she holds her breath, twisting a piece of hair around her fingers until her fingertips turn blue. Eleven is so far away. First the Careers—she bends her head down to avoid their bloodthirsty gazes—and then the other districts, torturously slowly.

Next to her, Thresh stares immobile at the screen. She wonders what he's thinking. How can he be so calm? This little number means everything. She wants to do well, but she also wants them to underestimate her.

The girl from Ten fades away. Her heart thumps painfully loudly, and then there's his face, staring defiantly out. A moment of eternity, and then—

"Ten," she breathes. "Ten! Oh, wow! Ten! That's great! Congratulations!"

He nods gruffly.

"Well done," Seeder says quietly. Chaff echoes her, patting Thresh on the back with his remaining hand.

Ten. That's amazing for a boy from Eleven. But he seems completely unfazed by it.

And then it's her picture, her eyes posing a quiet challenge, with a golden number nearby.

"Lucky seven," she whispers. She thinks of Mallow, how he was—_is—_obsessed with counting. Everything had to be perfect. Seven is good, he'd tell her solemnly. Seven is lucky.

"Well done," Thresh says.

"Thanks," she mumbles.

The boy from Twelve's face dissolves, and then there's the Fire Girl. With an eleven. Seeder gasps. "How the hell—she's from Twelve, for goodness' sake! Twelve!"

Chaff rubs his chin. "The ones you never suspect are the ones to watch out for," he reminds his co-mentor.

She thinks she hears Thresh snort in derision, but she's focused on the Fire Girl's gray eyes. She's the one who dared challenge the Capitol in volunteering for her sister. She's the one with the mockingjay pin, a fiery bit of hope. And now, with an eleven, the Fire Girl is completely thrust into the spotlight, eclipsing the two from Eleven. Rue smiles softly. That's just the way she likes it.


	9. in what furnace was thy brain?

He taps his hands on his legs, feeling the rhythm of a drum. His grandmother had a drum that came up to her chin that she would pound at barn dances. He remembers standing in the corner, bobbing his head to the steady beat, watching brightly dressed couples whirl around, snapping and clapping and stomping their feet. Violet would be shining, in the arms of some young man who would keep nervously glancing at Thresh. He sighs. These barn dances will keep going on, their kaleidoscopic cacophony stretching miles into the future, with or without him.

Up on the stage, the Careers dazzle next to Caesar Flickerman in his ridiculous blue hair. He would like to see how Caesar would fare in the arena.

He watches them with a steady hunter's gaze. The ones from District 1 seem like run of the mill Careers, pretty children with swords. He sighs, dreading his turn, where everybody will be staring at him.

Rue fidgets next to him, gazing enraptured at the stage as the District 2 girl sweeps on. He knows Rue will capture the audience's hearts at least. They'll cry to see such a tiny girl onstage, and they'll cry when she dies too, and then they'll forget her. He clenches and unclenches his fists.

Next is Cato. Thresh smirks, remembering the boy's stunned face when he turned down the offer to join the Careers.

"Look at me," he crows, spreading his arms wide. "I'm ready to go! It's all me. It's going to be me."

_Not if I can help it._

* * *

She floats onto the stage, her wings shimmering behind her. Her heart is fluttering in her chest. She feels like a fairy princess. She never had clothes like this at home.

"Hello, Rue," Caesar says kindly.

She smiles. His hair is funny. Blue like the candies Papa brought home as a treat on her birthday.

"A seven in training! Quite impressive."

The lights are blinding darts in her eyes. All she can see of the audience is blurry faces. She squints and tries to imagine her family's faces in the audience.

"Thank you."

"Now, I know you can't give anything away just yet, but any strategy for the Games?"

"I'm fast," she says proudly. "If they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Caesar tells her, patting her hand. Applause gushes up from the audience. This wasn't bad. She feels so pretty, adored by the people.

* * *

The little girl exits the stage, waving to the audience, who sigh in sympathy. He grits his teeth and lumbers to the stage, taking a deep breath.

"Thresh! Welcome!"

He doesn't say anything, just stares at Caesar's blue hair.

Caesar clears his throat. "Well, I see congratulations are in order for your training score. Ten! Take note of that, ladies and gentleman."

He feels like an ox being auctioned off.

"So," says Caesar, grinning in a way that is probably meant to be charming. "What do you think of the Capitol, Thresh?"

He grunts, shrugging his shoulders. A fiery pressure is building up inside his skull.

"Words can't describe it, eh? You're the strong and silent type. I like that." The audience titters. His head is pounding now.

"So, any strategies?"

He shrugs again.

"Look at him, ladies and gents! He can crush the competition! Literally!" The audience howls.

It's an inferno under these lights. Sweat is dripping from his forehead.

"Any sort of strategy for the Cornucopia?" Caesar leans forward eagerly.

"I'll figure it out," he rumbles.

"Good, good, good! I give you…Thresh, of District 11!"

He fumbles his way down from the stage, wiping his brow.

"You did great, Thresh!" a tiny voice says. He looks around. There she is, in the shadows by the wall, looking at him with big bright eyes.

"Thanks," he mumbles. He feels that burning in his chest again. He doesn't want to see this little girl die.

"Good luck, Thresh," she tells him solemnly.

He nods. He can't speak.

**Hi, guys! Sorry I haven't updated in approximately half a century. I've been super busy with college apps and the SAT subject tests and whatnot. But I updated! Be happy! :)**


	10. and when thy heart began to beat

The stars twinkle coldly above. She shivers. She can feel her life slipping away, draining out with every heartbeat. It's tomorrow. She can only think about it as a vague monster crouching on the horizon. She can't bear to think about it in more concrete terms.

Her heart thunders and her breath comes out in shaky gasps. She grips the edge of the balcony, trying to keep herself tethered to life. Maybe, she thinks, this is all a dream. It doesn't seem real, just a blur of color and noise. Maybe she'll wake up and smell porridge and find that her little brothers put a toad in her bed.

She wraps her arms around herself and sways back and forth. _I'm fast, _she chants. _I'm fast, and if they can't catch me, then they can't kill me. _She'll be okay.

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't realize you were out here."

It's Thresh, his silhouette blocking all the light from the doorway.

"It's okay," she says quietly. "I could use some company."

He shuffles over to the edge of the balcony and stares over the edge. She wonders what he's thinking of. She only vaguely knew him before. But he was one of the best workers, and now…

"You ready?" she asks.

He grunts.

"You'll be fine," she assures him. "I was watching you during training."

He shrugs his massive shoulders.

"You think of home often?"

"Yeah."

"Me too. I miss them so much. They gave me this necklace. But then the Capitol had to examine it. I don't think I could kill anyone with a necklace, though. Anyways, they said they'll give it back tomorrow. What's your token?"

"Pocket watch. My father's."

"Oh," she says. His father's dead. She can't remember how.

They watch the lights of the Capitol glitter and the stars in the sky sing. Silence drifts down between them.

She feels calmer now, her heartbeat steady. Maybe it's being with him. His steadiness wears off on her.

"I think I'm going to sleep." She bounces on the tips of her toes. "Um, good luck tomorrow."

He smiles this time, his eyes glowing. "You too." He pats her on the shoulder firmly, and she drifts back inside.

* * *

As the little girl leaves, he feels himself crumble, sinking down on the balcony floor, his head in his hands.

He's not going to die.

He knows that.

He can make it out of the bloodbath.

But the little girl—she might not.

He doesn't want to see her trampled at the Cornucopia, crushed like a flower beneath their feet.

His heart pounds as he tries to imagine tomorrow. _Protect her, Thresh, _Grandma says. _I raised you with honor and courage._

He thinks of her when she stole Cato's knife and hid on the ceiling. She's smart, smarter than most give her credit for.

He curls his hands into fists and concentrates on his breathing. In and out. In and out.

And his heart keeps beating.

**Sorry it's been so long. What with the SAT and college apps and Christmas it's been crazy. So I hope you enjoy this chapter and the next one! I must offer a hearty congratulations to you all for having survived the apocalypse. Also, Merry (Belated) Christmas!**


	11. what dread hand and what dread feet

The numbers count down and lives tick away and they stand, two dark figures squinting in the sunlight. They are miracles of blood and bone and life, fragile miracles among the coming death. Their fingers clench and unclench, their eyes dart to the woods, their lungs heave, their hearts beat.

* * *

Rue's fingers snake up to her necklace. She closes her eyes and pretends she's somewhere else. Anywhere else. But the numbers are dwindling so she forces her eyelids open. And there she is. Fire Girl. She looks like a cornered animal, like the stray cats around District 11, with nothing to lose. Fire Girl plays with the end of her braid and looks up at the cloud-dotted sky.

* * *

Thresh doesn't move. He's seen enough tributes blown sky-high before the gong to even scratch his nose. Which, now that he thinks about it, is beginning to feel like ants are crawling all over it. Fire ants at that. He twitches his nose and listens to the numbers count down with a steady beat.

* * *

The gong sounds and everything she has ever known is shattered. She skitters from her platform and runs, seeing only shards of the carnage at the Cornucopia. In quickly, grasping downwards, fingers close, dance away. _Run, run, run away, _she tells herself. Her necklace bounces against her chest. And then she is soaring through the air to land in a crumpled heap. The breath is knocked out of her and she begins to panic. And then she realizes that she tripped over a tree root. Only a tree root. She pulls herself up and watches a blonde boy crumble, blood pouring out of his chest, a grinning dark-haired girl standing over him. _Time to run._

* * *

Cato leaps from his platform, snarling. He's the first one to the Cornucopia. Thresh grits his teeth, lowers his head like a bull, and charges after him. He doesn't see dying kids gulp their last breaths. He just focuses on the Cornucopia, shoving away the tributes who stumble into his path. Swinging a black backpack over his shoulder, he looks around, heart pounding. _Where is she? _When he sees a small body, his heart stops, but it's just the District 4 boy. No time to pause here in the eye of the storm.

* * *

The forest flashes around her. She stumbles into a tree and gasps for breath, her nails digging into the soft bark.

She's alive.

The screams from the Cornucopia are fainter now. She shakes her head, trying to make herself focus. She can't stop trembling.

Slowly, she looks down at the object she has clenched in her fingers. It's a tiny blue backpack. She struggles with the zipper and peers inside.

Socks.

Capital socks, hi-tech socks, not like the thick woolen socks Mama knits.

And a water skin. No water, though.

_It's okay, _she tells herself. She whispers the words. "It's okay."

But it's not.

* * *

Glinting gold flashes next to a ruined body. Thresh lurches over and nudges the dead boy's hands aside. It's a curved golden sword. A scythe.

Something crashes into him with a sickening splat. He whirls around, and the body of a blonde girl slides off him. Terror bucks up in him, but he forces it down, forces himself to meet the eyes of the girl's killer.

Cato.

The guttural screams and dying shrieks and gleeful cries of bloodlust dissolve as he meets Cato's dark eyes. They are tethered to each other. Thresh nods, once, and Cato curls his lip, raising a javelin. The chaos of the Bloodbath suddenly starts again and Thresh runs, runs for all he is worth, his footsteps shaking the ground. The javelin whizzes by his shoulder, a silver glimpse. He swings his new sword wildly, just trying to get away. And then he bursts out of the Bloodbath, ducking into the forest. He bites his lip until it bleeds, coating his mouth with the coppery taste.

And then he begins to walk, his footsteps matching the beat of his heart. He pushes through the trees and doesn't stop until he can't hear the screams anymore. But he can still hear the screams inside his head.

**There you go: two chapters! :) I'd also like to tell you that I will be posting a short story soon _and _starting a new story. Merry Christmas!**


	12. deadly terrors

He watches the faces glimmer in the sky, ticking them off on his fingers. She's not up there. His knees go weak with relief. She's not up there, shining in the sky, but hidden in the darkness somewhere.

He lumbers back inside his hideaway, a hollowed out oak barely big enough to contain his bulk. The scythe is glinting in the shadows. He picks it up and swings it around, nicking the oak tree. It's a fine weapon, unlike anything he ever saw in District 11. If his grandma saw him with it, she'd rap his knuckles and tell him to get his head out of the clouds, boy, 'cause fancy weapons don't mean nothing in a battle to the death. He smiles and lets that thought warm him as he falls asleep.

* * *

The trees creak and swish, a gentle hum. She snuggles in the crook of a tree. She's up so high that she can't see the ground, only puddles of darkness. She's safe here, she tells herself. No one can find her up here.

She sees a faint glow through the trees and her heart seizes up. It's a fire. The Careers are going to find it. She digs her nails into the soft bark of the tree and waits. The crickets buzz and the leaves rustle and then she hears it: a desperate, tortured scream. Mocking laughter rises up and she squeezes her eyes shut. _It's okay it's okay it's okay. _An owl hoots, low and mournful. Her mouth is dry and sandy. It is a long time before she hears the cannon.

* * *

When the sun pushes its way through the thick canopy of leaves, she scurries down from her tree. She bounces on the tips of her toes. It's morning and she's alive. She hugs herself in delight before she remembers that she needs water. She pauses, listening to the animals scurrying around the underbrush. Which way should she go? She hesitates as images of the Careers flash in front of her.

_Remember this, baby, _her father said, dirty brown water from the town's well cupped in his calloused brown hands, _water. It's the stuff of life. The plants need it, the animals need it, and you need it too, baby._

She screwed her nose. _It's dirty, Daddy._

_Ain't nothing but a bit of soil. Being thirsty is worse._

The animals need it, she thinks. So there's water here. She pushes through the forest, crowded with life, so unlike the dusty towns and dry fields she knows. And she finds it, a silvery ribbon of water. Her heart leaps and she plunges her hands in. She is dancing with life.

* * *

The day trudges by slowly for him. He keeps his ears pricked for danger. Nothing comes. He hacks his way through the forest, humming work songs tunelessly under his breath. He finds a rippling golden field, and for a moment, his heart stops. For a moment, he could be home, paused on the brink of yet another day of work.

He's not, though. He sets his jaw, and plunges in. This is his territory.

* * *

The deadliest terrors come at night. She tries to keep herself calm, one hand pressed over her mouth to keep from screaming. Every thump of a rabbit is a bloodthirsty Career. Every creak of the trees is her own bones cracking. When she closes her eyes, she is in the Bloodbath, and there is so much blood. She can't run, can't run. They're all around her, and she can't see Thresh. They're coming closer, and there's no one, no one to save her now.

Her eyes fly open and she grasps the tree trunk. _Safe safe safe, _she chants. Tears bubble up and she blinks them back. _Safe. _She gasps for breath, the dark earth spinning around her. _Safe. Safe and sound. _She tries to keep her eyes open but they fall shut, and she is there again, at the mouth of the Cornucopia with nowhere to run.

* * *

He rises at the daybreak among the dawn-touched grain. The field whispers and murmurs as he moves around in it, scouting his territory. His mind cranks and putters as he plots. The only other living creatures are the tiny brown field mice that trip over themselves to get out of his way. A grin snakes across his face. Here, in this field, he is unstoppable. He can move as silently as he wishes, plunging out of the golden sea at the very last instant. He is the deadliest terror here.

* * *

She launches herself out of a nightmare, and holds on to the tree trunk, trying to stop her bones from shaking. Her breath comes in short gulps. _Safe, _she whispers, until she can force herself to believe it. Her heart is stuttering in her chest. Very carefully, she pries her fingers from the tree trunk and removes exactly seven berries from her knapsack. She eats them delicately, one by one, chewing slowly to make them last. She found a tiny bush yesterday, dotted with golden berries as bright as fireflies, that yielded a meager harvest.

She peers around, bright eyes flashing from tree to tree. She sniffs, and pulls back from the acrid tang.

Smoke.

She is shaking like a leaf in wind, but she forces herself to gauge where the smoke is. It's coming from the north end, away from the Cornucopia. Fear crashes over her. She can't go back to the Cornucopia. She crawls up the tree until she breaks through the canopy. She can see lurid orange flames crashing through the forest. As she watches, awestruck, the fire dwindles.

_Fire, _she thinks. _Fire Girl._

Should she? she wonders. But she thinks of that hopeful golden mockingjay pinned over the girl's heart.

She takes a deep breath and leaps into the air, free as a bird.

**Yay! Another chapter! I'll try to get a lot of writing done during Easter break. Reviews are much appreciated.**


	13. what dread grasp

Fire Girl, a speck on the forest floor, is sprinting through the forest. Rue's throat closes up as she spots the pack of Careers snapping after her. Her fingers tighten on the branches. Fire Girl—_Katniss, _she remembers, _Katniss Everdeen—_staggers to a halt. Her chest rises and falls as her eyes dart wildly around. The baying of the Careers grows louder. _Climb, _Rue thinks. _Climb to safety._

Katniss tosses one desperate look over her shoulder before racing over to the nearest pine. She ferociously climbs up it. The Careers stumble to a halt beneath the pine. Rue watches, unseen, as the big blonde one tries to go after her. But Katniss is already near the top. Rue feels a small spark of satisfaction.

The Careers argue about what to do, shoving each other and swearing. One of them hangs off to the side. She realizes it's the other one from Twelve. She bites her lip, mulling over this new development. She thought they were star-crossed lovers. It would have been nice to believe in something like that.

* * *

When night seeps over the arena, Katniss is still in her tree and Rue is in hers. She watches the older girl, jealous as a small white parachute nudges her. Rue's never gotten anything from her sponsors.

The Careers boldly light a fire. Soon their snoring is rising up. Rue watches Katniss tie herself to her tree.

She wishes she had an older sister. She doesn't like being the oldest. When the time came, there was no one to protect her.

* * *

The grain field, ashy grey in the pre-dawn light, hisses and rattles. He stands as still as granite, save for one hand inching its way down to his sword. The rustling grows louder. He licks his lips, tasting his sweat. Somewhere in the depths of the forest he hears the cries of a mockingjay.

The rustling stops, but he stays still holding his breath. His muscles are beginning to cramp up. He's just about to move when a dark shape explodes from the grain.

* * *

She can't fall asleep. The anthem is winding through the trees, but all she can hear is buzzing.

Buzzing.

Everything slides into a sharp focus. She holds her breath as she carefully sticks her neck out of the tree, trying to catch Katniss's attention. Finally, Katniss turns her head, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes. Rue extends one finger up. Katniss's eyes widen as she looks up. Rue smiles to herself as she looks at the bulbous nest hanging from the tree. Tracker jackers. Katniss begins sawing at the branch, _scrape scrape scrape. _Rue feels lighter and lighter.

* * *

He stumbles backward, his mind a raging blur of _fight _and _kill. _His hands sweep upward with the scythe out of their own accord. The scythe connects with something fleshy, making a soft _thump. _He squints, swinging the sword back ready to strike again. Something in the shadows ripples. He tenses, swearing softly when he makes out the shape of a giant snake.

The snake lashes out again, venom dripping from its fangs. He snarls, the scythe slicing through the air, only to miss the snake. The snake hisses, its forked tongue darting from side to side, and rears up. He tilts his head backwards to stare at it, feeling a steely calm coursing through his veins.

* * *

When the nest drops, the tracker jackers explode out of it. She covers her ears. The Careers are howling in agony as they run around. Like chickens with their heads cut off, she thinks. Katniss is running, too, and Rue holds her breath, praying that Fire Girl will be okay. Most of the Careers take off, crashing through the forest, but two are left behind. Their skin begins to swell, bubbling and popping like boiling water. One cannon sounds, and then another, but Katniss is still on her feet. _Please, Katniss, be okay. _Katniss sinks to her knees, next to the blond girl's bloated body, bending over it as if embracing the fallen girl. The hovercrafts are swooping down but Katniss stays where she is. _Run, Katniss, run. _And then Katniss emerges, grasping a metal bow and arrows, and she runs, wobbling, before she collapses in a pile.

* * *

The snake is just another day's work, he thinks. His shoulders tighten and fall into the steady rhythm of swinging the blade. That's all that is. Reaping. He's back home, and maybe the snake is just an ugly overseer. The moss green scales blend into a tartan plaid shirt, the fangs morph into crooked yellow teeth, the beady eyes remain the same. He dodges the snake's lunges, breathing steadily. That's what he always wanted to do, wasn't it? Take out the overseer for good. The sun is rising, coating the fields with gold. His blade gleams, drops of blood flying off it. His lips curl back in a satisfied smile. He swings again, and the snake ducks under his blade, impossibly fast, and sinks its fangs in his arm.

* * *

Every time Katniss cries out, Rue's heart leaps like a startled rabbit. She tries stroking the older girl's forehead, murmuring lullabies her mother used to sing. She cocoons Katniss in leaves and twigs. Night stalks over the arena, and she scurries up a tree, ears pricked for the sounds of the Careers. Pride glows in her—she saved Katniss' life. Today, she did more than merely surviving. She helped another survive the dread grasp of the Games.


End file.
